San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1887-01-07

Then TWO lille round hal,S OF chick
ems began TO fight. the most laughable
and comical sight in the world, and
Ruth ran n tn m: n mot IeTly hen or
two joined in the fray. and she had
some q fiiculty in qliell.ng il. She went
back flushed and br1atllesS, laughing
over the captured chicken. Eric was
still there, handsome. indolent, and
happy.
.'Do you like feeding chickensY" he
asked. do you like this kind of work.
She looked at him with that sweet,
serious gaze.
II have never thought" she answer
ed, whether | liked it or not. 1t was
the thing that lay before me-Obvious
duty. and have never given thought
to any Other kind OF life or work"
''IIow old are you. Bonnie DOOM" he
asked. and she answered, shyly-
Eighteen
II wisH.n he continued. ''you would
let me call you Bonnie Doom. The name
has taken my fancy. II seems to be
part of all these pretty surroundings;
hear the ripple of the green boughs and
the whispers of the wind over the long
grass in it. May | call You Bonnie
DOOM You see," he continues. more
as though he were arguing the question
with himself than with her-''You see,
you wait upon me so kindly and so nice
ly-you might be fairy, you are so
light. so quick, so deft in your move
mentS sand it seems really almost
absurd to say Miss Vaughan. Ruth is
beautiful name. one of che sweetest
given to women. but the use of it would
be perhaps triH prrsumptuOus; but
Bonnie DOOn-Swaet Bonnie Doom, with
II touch OF the heather and breath of
the braes in it,isquite irresistible. What
do you say?'
Il am q Ute viii ng." she + piled, and
he said o .Macl, JHat her IL cdom from
all atT C am AMI all cOuueJIY was q
charm as great as her beauty.
Eric st. John had been at Larch Hill
Farm week then, but this was the first
time he had left the house, His illness
had been terrible one; he had been in
the very arms of death, and even the
little journey from London to Aspen
dale had wearied him beyond measure.
The first few days he had not been able
to rise, and Mrs. Vaughan had nursed
him with the greatest care; then he had
risen, only to lie on the couch in the
pretty green drawing-room, and then
life was different thing.
One must be worn and tired of the
noise, the roar, the unceasing confusion
of London to realise what this sweet
brOOding silence and rest meant to
him: To lie there while the summer wind
parted the long white curtains, and
came in laden with the breath of sweet
roses and hay from the meadows, musi-
cal with the song of a thousand birds,
was revelation to him. And then
Ruth began to wait on him; she brought
him fruit and flowers. When he felt
most weak and incapable, she appeared
suddenly with tempting jelly soup,
chicken, always by some strange
chance the very thing he needed.
1t was such pleasure to look at her
beautiful face, 10 look at the sheen of
her golden Lair, and watch her quick,
graceful movements: he liked the sound
of her voice, so sweet and clear; he lik-
ed her to wait upon him, but what puZ-
zled him first was who the farmer called
Bonnie Doom.
From morning until night that name
sounded through the house.
Bonnie Doom, Bonnie Doom. want
yOu!" and when the invalid found that
il was the name given to his beautiful
young nurse he was delighted with it.
This bright July morning was the
first time he had ventured to leave the
house. He walked as far as the white
fence, where Ruth stood feeding her
chickens. He was almost frightened at
his own weakness; he had to lean against
the fence, he could hardly stand or
walk.
''How fever takes away a mans
strength, Bonnie Doom" he said.
"Would you believe that three months
since / belonged to one of the best ath-
letic clubs in London, and was consid-
cred shining star; now | could hardly
throw stone at one of your chickens?"
1T will all come back to you," she
said, ''if you are patient"
Il am patient enough" he replied. 81
like this life; there could be no greater
contrast between this and my London
life."
She looked at him shyly.
"What are you?' she asked. 81 mean
what do you do in London?"
He smiled to himself at the simplicity
of the question.
II am a barrister," he said; ''indeed l
may describe myself as a barrister with
great expectations. 1 have plenty of
briefs, and l work hard-very hard. l
want a name of my own. That is laud-
able ambition, is IL nOt!
you could not have name belong
ing to anyone else," she said.
"Yes, that is possible, Bonnie Doom;
someone else's name will come to me if
/ live long enough. | want to make one
for myself and | was succeeding brave
" enough when this fever came. /
had forgotten there were limits to hui
man strength, and ] had studied all
night, after working all day. deserv-
ed fever, did | nOt?'
NO" she replied; but you must be
careful for the future. Fame does not
matter much when one sleeps under the
white daisies"
81 want to make name for myself,
and l succeeded" he continued; but
/ have worked hard, and this place
seems to me garden of Paradise after
London, and yOu,n he continued. with
a gay smile-'you are its Eve. That is
an old-fashiOned compliment, but i
mean it."
She blushed and laughed. Eric st.
John was beginning to admire those
sudden deep, beautiful bushes, and TO
say those words which he knew would
bring them"
I'm London" he continued, 81 I've in
what the LondOners call chambers;
have three rooms. and never see tree.
see hundreds OF people; | hear the
most wonderful stories; | conduct some
strange eases. and life there seems all a
whirl; no time for anything. On my
table find every morning DIS, letters,
invitations; il pieaseS the people Of the
great world to seek me, not on my own
account, but because of this name be-
longing to someone Else that must one
day be mine. ! work hard. then at times
] go out, ] dine at great houses. ] 90 to